The numbers on the screen bled together into a grey fog.
I blinked once, hard, trying to force my eyes to focus.
My desk clock read 9:17 PM.
The executive floor was a tomb, so quiet and dark I could hear the faint whir of my own laptop fan.
This office, my shiny new prize, felt like a glass box suspended over the city.
I’d stopped answering my phone.
Mom’s worried voicemails piled up.
Zane’s pleading texts were little red notifications I swiped away without reading.
The only thing that felt real was the Harrington project data.
It was clean.
It was logical.
It didn’t lie or love someone else.
A dull ache had been brewing in my lower back for hours.
I’d tried to ignored it.
I blamed the chair, the stress, the sheer exhaustion of holding myself upright in a world that had cracked open.
I pushed back from the desk to stand and a wave of dizziness hit me so violently the floor seemed to tilt.
I grabbed the edge of the desk, my fingers digging into the wood.
You just need food, she told herself.
Or sleep.
Or maybe to just stop existing for a while.
But it wasn’t hunger.
It was a deep, rolling nausea, and a cramping twist low in my belly that was all wrong.
It was sharper than my usual cramps.
The pain spread from my lower abdoment to my back and it all sent a severe headache to me.
A cold, tiny flicker of fear sparked in my chest.
But I shoved it down.
Stress.
Grief.
They did things to you.
This was just the bill coming due for not falling apart.
I sat back down, the chair groaning.
My hand pressed against her stomach, over the ache.
I was late.
A week?
I’d lost track.
With everything that had happened, a messed-up cycle was the least surprising thing.
My period had never been a clock anyway.
I tried to go back to the spreadsheet.
The columns of numbers blurred and swam.
The pain came again, a hot, insistent pull that made me s*ck in a sharp breath through my teeth.
This wasn’t right.
My office door was open a crack.
I should go home.
The thought of the empty apartment…
or worse, Zane being there with his sad eyes and emptier apologies, made the nausea worse.
Here, I was someone.
Here, I had a job to do.
I decided to get water.
Standing up was a mistake.
The dizziness came back like a wave, the room doing a slow, sickening spin.
Black dots danced at the corners of my vision.
I reached for the desk but my hand fumbled, swiping the edge of a neat stack of files.
They crashed to the floor, the sound explosively loud in the silence.
The noise seemed to hang in the air.
I clung to the desk, head bowed, just breathing.
Just get to the door.
Get to the bathroom.
Splash cold water on your face and get it together.
I took one step.
Then another.
The carpet felt soft and unstable, like walking on moss.
I made it to the doorframe and leaned against it, my forehead against the cool wood.
The hallway stretched forever, the lights too bright.
The elevator was a million miles away.
A voice cut through the fog.
“Sullivan?”
I flinched.
It was Vance.
He was just… there. This story is hosted at g.com.
In the doorway.
I tried to straighten up, to look like I had it under control.
“I’m fine,” I said, but my voice was a thin thread.
“Just stood up too fast.”
He didn’t argue.
He was across the room in three strides, his eyes doing a quick, cold scan of me, the sweat on my temple, the tremor in my hand, the way I was hunched over.
He wasn’t looking at me like a person.
He was assessing a problem.
“You’re not,” he stated.
His voice left no room for debate.
“Can you walk to the elevator?”
I nodded, a weak jerk of my chin, and pushed off the doorframe.
I took two steps and my knees just… gave out.
A sharp gasp escaped me as another pain, deeper this time, clenched my insides.
His hand shot out and caught my elbow.
His grip wasn’t gentle.
It was firm, solid, impersonal.
It was the only thing holding e up.
“The car is downstairs.”
”No, I just need to—” I started, a last gasp of stupid pride.
“You need a doctor,” he interrupted, his tone final.
He guided me, half-carrying my weight, into the hallway.
I felt impossibly light, like a bundle of sticks.
He hit the elevator button, his jaw tight.
The back seat of the town car was cold.
I slumped against the window, the cool glass feeling good against my hot skin.
I kept my eyes shut, trying to separate the whirlwind in my head from the very real, scary pain in my body.
Vance didn’t touch me.
He sat a careful distance away, a silent, tense shape in the dark.
He pulled out his phone.
“Lydia.” His voice was different.
Lower.
Flatter.
A voice for getting things done.
“Call St. Anne’s. Dr. Evans. Tell her I’m bringing someone in, possible abdominal emergency. Have a bay ready.”
A pause.
I held her breath.
“No, not my wife. Nerissa Sullivan. Yes. Now.”